Friday Fiction for October 25, 2013

            Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Sara, over at her imaginative blog, Fiction Fusion. Don’t miss her story this week, or the other wonderful submissions.

            My plans for this year’s NaNoWriMo is a story titled, “Draconian Responses.” This will be a follow-on story to 2009’s NaNo story, “Empty Threats.” In preparation, I’ve been going over that story, refreshing the characters and situations in my mind as I plan on the events that will follow what happened. One of the things that happens in that story, is that the Empty in charge of caring for the Rover Hall decides to run away from her position, and goes to Epsilon Eridanus (“Qi’le”) with the main character. Because she was never programmed for life outside the Rover Hall, she has a difficult time adjusting, even though she is secured employ helping to care for an Inn. This changes when she experiences the Qi’le phenomenon called “B’sela,” which is the joining of two minds, believed by the people of Qi’le as God specifically bringing two people together in marriage. In the original draft, the Empty (who by then has decided to call herself Emily) has been presented to Musi for the B’sela, and he has consented. I skipped ahead to their Affirmation in the Temple, but began to think this week that it would be interesting to explore how Emily’s former life as an Empty might come into play in their early relationship. The result is this new chapter.

            Next week, I hope to have the first excerpt from “Draconian Responses.”

Chapter 26

Empty Memories

            The couple walked slowly along the edge of the forest, around the perimeter of the meadow surrounding Pisces. Emily held to Musi’s hand, trying to assimilate all the memories she could from his mind. Every aspect of his life was a new concept to her, and a painful reminder of all that had been denied to her because she was an Empty.

            One of the older students from the priestess school followed perhaps a dozen or so meters behind them, providing a sufficient chaperone that all proprieties were maintained. The girl’s presence was subtle, and not sufficient to inhibit free conversation, though for most of the walk so far, they had both been silent.

            Musi plucked a leaf from a low hanging branch and crushed it between his fingers. A pleasant scent wafted through the air, and he rubbed the fragrant greenery across his forehead and his neck. “I know your former home was at another star, but will your mother be offended if you do not present me to her for approval before our Affirmation?”

            A panicked feeling ran through her, and she released his hand. She stood still and closed her eyes, struggling with whether to release the memories, or suppress them.

            He sought her hand again, and took it gently. “I can sense you in my mind, exploring all that I am, as a child eagerly explores the forest for the first time, yet, you have a door to your mind that you have not opened to me yet. The priestess Se’Ana warned me of this, Emily, and I still accepted the B’sela. There cannot be anything in your mind that could break the bond we now share.”

            She opened her eyes and blinked away the tears before meeting his gaze. “I don’t have a mother to present you to for approval.” With the B’sela, she could understand his Qi’le speech and even respond a little in kind already, but English was still easier for her.

            “She has passed through the final dream, then?”

            “No.”

            “Did she abandon you as a child?”

            “No, Musi. You don’t understand. I never had a mother.”

            He gave her a puzzled look. “No, I do not understand this. You are here, therefore, you must have had a mother at some time.”

            She shook her head. “No. No mother, and no father, either.”

            “What you are saying is not possible.”

            Her hand slipped from his again, and she lowered her face. With a soft sob, she reached both hands up and placed them on either side of his face, with all fingers touching his skin.

            “Emily, this is not proper - ”

            Before he could finish the correction, she allowed the memories to flood through.

            Her eyes opened for the first time in a sterile room. She sat up in a container, flanked on all sides by similar containers. Some were empty, and some contained other sleeping people, all younger than her. A woman walked over and consulted a device in her hand, before handing her a simple garment. She had never seen such a thing before, but somehow, knew what she was supposed to do with it. She stood up, and draped herself in the plain cloth.

            “This way,” the woman said, and even though she had never heard speech before, she understood what she was expected to do and followed.

            She was led to a doorway. “Open Empty Holding,” the woman said, and the door opened. “Go inside, and commence conditioning routine one.”

            There were others in the room, dressed just as she was, and machines that she suddenly knew what to do with. On one, she would walk for a certain interval every day. On another, she would lift a bar in a prescribed pattern. Each machine had a different function, and each day, she would follow the others in the room through the routine.

            She had no way of knowing or caring how long she spent in this room. Each day was the same as before – awaken, eat, exercise, take care of personal hygiene, eat again, and then sleep. She never spoke with any of the other residents in the room, and none ever spoke to her.

            The next distinct memory was of another woman coming to her in the room. “You have been requisitioned,” the woman said. “Come with me.”

            She was taken to another room. “Open Empty Programming,” the woman said, and the door opened. They entered, and the woman pointed to a cylindrical bed. “Remove your clothing, and lie down there.”

            She did, and the bed glowed blue, and she fell asleep. When she awoke, she was handed a different kind of clothing, and taken to a different room. A man waited there, and he looked her over before nodding.

            When he had walked around her several times, he stopped in front of her. “What would you like to do?” he asked.

            “I would like to take care of the Rover Hall,” she replied.

            “How will you do that?”

            “I will clean the hall, see to it that the facilities are maintained, the linens changed between occupants and at regular intervals besides, and arrange for whatever needs or desires the Rovers express, in keeping with local laws and their ability to pay.”

            The man led her outside to a transport, and took her to the Rover Hall in Eldorado. He did not even go inside with her – she already knew everything she needed to know about the building and the operation.

            Emily wept softly against Musi’s shoulder, aware through the B’sela that tears ran down his cheeks as well.

            “You have no memories of a childhood?”

            She shook her head without lifting it. “My childhood was spent asleep in a chamber. I was created, grown, and maintained by a machine until I was an adult, and ready to be requisitioned.”

            “They called you ‘Empties,’” he whispered. His voice sounded flat in the Terran tongue.

            She nodded. “My mind was filled only enough to perform the tasks I was requisitioned for, until that moment you touched me.”

            “How can they do such a thing?”

            “I don’t know. I was never programmed to understand the technology.”

            He reverted to Qi’le. “They will answer to God someday for what they have done. I am just a man, and may not understand the Scriptures very well, but this must be one of the worst forms of blasphemy.”

            “I was nothing, Musi. I was property. When the day came that I was no longer useful for my requisition, I would have been disposed of like trash.”

            He brought his hands up and placed the ring and middle fingers of both hands on her cheeks. “They may have thought of you as nothing, but they did not see you as I see you. You are the B’sela I have prayed for my whole life. You are the gift that God has led to me from across the stars, and the completion of who I am.” His melody changed to the formal dialect used for the liturgy. “Truly God has joined us as one mind. We shall be one heart, and when we have been affirmed, we shall be one body.”

            She listened to his words and to his mind, and leaned back to look at his face. “I was supposed to say that last phrase to you when you gave your touch consenting to the B’sela.”

            He smiled at her. “God had a different way for you to say it.”

            “I don’t know what kind of wife I’ll be.”

            “I do not know what kind of husband I will be, but we will learn together, and if the Most Blessed Mother of All grants that I place children at your breasts, we will learn together how to give them full memories.”

Friday Fiction for October 18, 2013

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Vonnie over on her “My Back Door” blog. Be sure to visit and enjoy her fun turkey story this week, as well as the other submissions for FF.

Since Friday Fiction was on something of a hiatus last November, I missed posting chapters of my NaNoWriMo novel while it was in process. As I mentioned before, I took the short story, “Reef, Her Madness,” and used that as the basic outline for a novel-length retelling of the same events, and then some. What this allowed me to do was expand the story to include scenes that were brushed over in the short story, and to add additional POVs. One of the pivotal scenes in the original story was the night swim along the reef, with dive lights rented from the resort Dive Center. In the rewrite, I decided it would be fun to see the Dive Center through the female main character’s perspective, and to use the scene to set up subsequent scenes in the book.

By the way – many dive shops do offer something very similar to the Explore Scuba course mentioned in this chapter, offering it for very inexpensive or even free. Often, it is done in the dive shop’s training pool, but in some locations, it is actually done in the ocean. If you have ever been curious about scuba, look up your local scuba shops with training facilities, and inquire about a Discover Scuba or similar course (I fictionalized the name for the story).

Chapter 14

From Chasing The Sharks

            Theresa entered the resort Dive Center, and wondered how she’d managed to have never been in one before. She could not remember a time when she hadn’t loved the water, and scuba would be a natural extension of that love.

            Large color prints of reef life decorated the walls, and a big screen monitor played an ongoing slide show and video montage of the area’s diving. It was all just so beautiful and enticing, and she imagined what it would be like to be one of the people in the video, gliding over the seabed.

            She took a mask from its hook on a wall display, and held it over her face. The skirt was much softer and conformed so much better to her shape than the inexpensive mask she’d bought from a department store. If she wasn’t already stretching her budget just being on this trip, she would have considered buying it. Turning her attention to the display of snorkels, she ran a quick currency conversion in her head, and realized the cheapest snorkel they had, cost more than her entire set of fins, mask, and snorkel.

            A young woman came from a back room. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in. How may I help you?”

            Theresa pulled the mask from her face, and quickly replaced it on the display.

            “Are you looking for a new mask?” the employee asked. “The one you just had on is one of our best sellers. It’s very comfortable, and offers excellent peripheral vision.”

            “It is nice,” Theresa agreed. “But it’s not in my budget right now. I just came in to rent a couple of dive lights.”

            “Ah, very good,” she said, pulling out the rental form. “Are you going out on our dive boat tonight?”

            Theresa shook her head. “No, I’m not a scuba diver. A friend and I are going to do a little night snorkeling in the lagoon.”

            “I see. Are you experienced snorkelers?”

            “Yes, and I assure you, we’re both quite comfortable in the water.”

            The employee walked to a closet, and removed a pair of large, yellow plastic lights from a shelf. She brought them back to the counter, and switched each on to check their functionality. “These are a bit bulky, but we have found them to be quite reliable and to have excellent battery life. We do require a credit card deposit on them, or else charge the rental back to your bungalow, so that your card on file with the resort provides the deposit. How would you like to proceed?”

            “My friend should have already made arrangements to have them billed to his bungalow. He’s in number twenty-three.”

            She checked her computer. “Yes, it’s here – bungalow twenty-three, Mr. Timothy Billings.” She pulled back the rental form. “I won’t need this. Mr. Billings completed it online, so you should be all set.” Smiling, she handed the lights to Theresa. “If you and Mr. Billings are comfortable snorkeling, have you ever considered trying scuba? Many divers started out snorkeling, and it’s an easy transition for them to learn scuba.”

            “I hadn’t really thought about it before, but looking at your videos, it just looks so incredibly wonderful and peaceful.”

            “It is,” she said. “When I am underwater, it seems that all the other cares of the world just disappear.” She pulled a brochure from a display at the side of the counter. “If you would like to try it during your visit, we offer an Explore Scuba course. We give you a brief classroom introduction to scuba, and then a basic instruction on the use of the scuba gear in the shallow water just off the beach here. Once you have the hang of it, the instructor will take you on a short guided tour underwater, and you can decide if you like the experience enough to pursue certification. The cost is minimal, and includes the rental of all the gear you will need. All you have to bring is your bathing suits.”

            Theresa looked over the brochure. “It does sound nice, but I’ll need to think about it.”

            “Of course. Talk it over with your friend, and if you decide to do it, just call us here at the Dive Center, and we’ll schedule the time at your convenience.”

            “I will, thank you.” She lifted the lights just a bit. “I’ll have these back tomorrow.”

            “Thank you,” the employee said. “Enjoy your stay at Caruso Lagoon.”

            Theresa retreated from the shop before the temptations within could get any more persuasive. The Explore course sounded good, and the cost did seem reasonable, but she needed to check what she’d spent so far and make sure her limited vacation budget could handle it.

            The most amusing thought, though, was that Timothy would show up without a bathing suit. The only thing he was required to bring, and if they did the course, he wouldn’t bring it. She smiled, and then laughed when she realized that she had spent the last two days swimming with someone who had been skinny-dipping the whole time. Oh, if I tell Daddy about this, he may never let me out of his sight again.

            Even Jenny’s silent treatment that morning couldn’t dampen her mood.

Friday Fiction for October 11, 2013

Welcome to Friday Fiction, which I have the privilege of hosting this week. Look for the Linky tool after this intro.

I had to miss last week, as I was on an out-of-town trip to a location that was completely disconnected from phone, internet, and pretty much any other form of electronic communication, but I’m back this week, and with a new story.

I’m gearing up for NaNoWriMo 2013, and at this time, I’m planning a story to follow on with my 2009 NaNoWriMo story, “Empty Threats.” I’ve thought a lot about what might happen after the closing events of that story, and I find the story potential strong. Towards the end of the first story, the main characters must deal with a growing uprising on the colony world of Alsafi, where lab-grown humans are available as “made to order” servants, programmed at the time of their requisition for whatever tasks the buyer requests. In essence, these are treated as biological robots, and not as true humans. The Empties play a part in the first story, and the technology will have a strong influence in the second. This scene will not appear in this year’s NaNoWriMo book, but it does establish certain parameters that will play into the story.

Previous appearances of this concept on this blog were in the stories, “TheRequisition,” “Exiled With a Fool,” and in the excerpts from “Empty Threats” in November 2009.

Empty Promises

By Rick Higginson

            Eldorado was in turmoil, and the Ruling Council Chambers sealed against the threat of the mobs outside. He approached a small side door, which was opened for him by a security agent inside.

            The guard crossed his wrists, palms facing out, beneath his chin. “Esteemed sir, the Council is waiting inside.”

            He nodded to the man, and strode down the corridor towards the secured meeting room. The fortified door swung open for him just as he reached it, and another guard inside repeated the greeting and the gesture. Without a word, he went to the chair at the head of the table, and took a seat.

            The Council Member at the far end of the table stood up. “Who are you, and how did you get in here? We were expecting the Adon.”

            He studied the man for a few moments, and then leaned forward to rest folded hands on the table. “Sit down, Beretti.”

            The man returned a shocked look. “I beg your pardon. I am a member of the Ruling Council, and I do not take orders from the likes of you.”

            “No, Beretti. You take your orders from your Corporate Benefactors and the Colonial Council. That will no longer be the case. I am the new Adon, and you will take orders from the likes of me.”

            Another Council Member spoke up. “Preposterous! If something has happened to the Adon, then the new Adon is chosen by this Council.”

            “That may have been how it was once done, Grenwald, but by appointment of the Revolutionary Council, I am the new Adon. Your choice now is to pledge your loyalty to me and work with the Revolutionary Council for the smooth transition of power, or to find yourselves arrested as enemies of Alsafi.”

            Beretti looked like he was ready to have an aneurism. “This is against the Archipelago Charter. When the Colonial Council hears of this-”

            “I have severed our bonds to the Archipelago. Alsafi is now an independent, autonomous world, free of the imposition of the Colonial Council and their oppressive Charter.”

            “You can’t do that!”

            “I already have, and as I have already said, your choice is to side with me, or to join the deposed Adon as an enemy of Alsafi. Might I suggest that any of you that wishes to remain loyal to the old Adon, stand up now. Any of you ready to accept the new ruling order, take a seat.”

            Better than half of the Council stood up, most with angry expressions. Those that remained seated appeared confused and uncertain.

            “Thank you for clarifying your positions. Those of you standing should step back against the wall, and wait to be taken into custody.”

            Beretti laughed at him. “It’s you who should wait to be taken into custody. We have the majority opinion of the Ruling Council standing up, and the Alsafi Security Forces obey the Ruling Council.” He looked at the guard by the door. “You there – arrest this usurper.”

            The guard came and stood next to him. “Esteemed sir?”

            He waved his hand in resignation. “Show Beretti to the wall.”

            “Yes, Esteemed Sir.” The guard moved swiftly to the other end of the table, and seized Beretti by the arms. The man gave a cry of outrage and protest, before he was flung face-first into the wall. Beretti collapsed to the floor, with blood streaming from his nose.

            “Now, does anyone else need any help finding the wall?”

            Grenwald folded his arms. “You have one guard in the room. We have our assistants. You can’t overpower us all.”

            He smiled. “Your assistants, yes. I should remind you that each one of your assistants is an Empty, programmed before they were delivered to you.”

            “And your point - ?”

            “I promise you that you do not want to rely on them for your safety.”

            “But I should rely on you to be truthful?” Grenwald pointed a finger at him. “I’d say you were behind this entire uprising. You were the one breaking into the media servers and encouraging sedition.”

            He stood and bowed. “Guilty as charged, but your realization is too late to do you any good.” He looked to the young man that stood behind Grenwald. “You may act on Administrative Resolution Fifteen.”

            “You can’t give my assistant orders-”

            Before Grenwald finished speaking, his assistant delivered a kick to the side of his knee, dropping him to the floor. As Grenwald tried to get back up, the young man took hold of his head in both hands and gave a sudden twist, and then let the Council Member’s body slump to the floor.

            With expressions of shock and fear, the remaining standing Council Members hurried to the wall.

            “The Alsafi Security Forces obey me now. Your Empties will obey me. The population of Alsafi will soon hail me as their liberator, so if any of you sitting here are harboring any thoughts of subversive actions, forget them now. Have I made myself understood?”

            The voices were weak, but there was a chorus of, “Yes, Esteemed Sir” from the Council Members that had remained seated.

            “Good. Assistants, take your former masters to join the former Adon. The guards outside will direct you where to go. Two of you others, help Grenwald’s assistant to remove him from these chambers.” He waited until they were all gone, and then looked around at the remaining faces. “Now, before we get down to the business of a smooth transition of power, are there any questions?”

            A woman to his left raised her hand slightly. “Where is the former Adon?”

            He smiled. “I will indulge that as the one and only question I will allow about him.” He spun his chair to face the large display mounted on the wall. “System, display feed from Provisional Corrections circuit six.”

            The display illuminated to show a long gallows, where two bodies dangled from ropes.

            “Welcome to the new order of Alsafi. I promise you that dissent will not be tolerated.”

Friday Fiction for September 27, 2013

Friday Fiction is hosted this week over on Karlene A. Jacobsen’s blog. If you came here first, make sure you get over there to find the Linky widget and the other submissions for your weekend reading pleasure.

Starting sometime in the next week or two, “Marta’s Pod” will get the professional editing in preparation for publication. When I first wrote “Cardan’s Pod,” I finished that story, but the characters just wouldn’t leave me alone. I immediately launched into writing the sequel, which not only became “Marta’s Pod,” but also ended up as the longest single story I’ve written to date. At one time, I considered trying to divide it into two stories, but there were so many things happening concurrently in that time span of the tale, that any attempt to make it into two books would inevitably result in spoilers. One book would reveal key outcomes of the other. I elected to leave it as one book, though I have pared it down by around 15000 – 20000 words from its peak length.

This week, I thought it would be fun to post a “teaser,” with the opening events of the book. This is about five years after the closing events of “Cardan’s Pod.”

Marta’s Pod

Prologue

                                                 

Trouble is the common denominator of living. It is the great equalizer.

~ Soren Kierkegaard

          Gerald Lawton removed the mail from the box, and sorted through the stack. The junk mail was gathered together beneath the important pieces, which included several bills and statements from insurance companies. An envelope from a County Recorder was held separate from the other mail, as he stepped back through the open front door.

          He glanced momentarily at his son. Mark Lawton sat in a wheelchair, silently watching a television talk show. The young man’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts on the program. Mark had the same reaction regardless of what was on the screen. “You want me to change the channel?” Gerald asked.

          Mark shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I doubt there’s anything better on, anyway.”

          He shook his head. “Up to you,” he said. “You could do something else besides watching junk.”

          “Sure, Dad. Maybe I’ll go for a run. Oh wait - I can’t. I don’t have any stinkin’ legs.”

          I know, son, Gerald thought. You remind me every chance you get, it seems. What happened to the smiling, upbeat kid we raised? Did they have to amputate your sense of humor after the accident, too?

          Entering the kitchen, he dropped the junk mail in the recycle bin without slowing his step, and took the bills to the sorter by the refrigerator. Once his hands were free, he used his pocket knife to slice open the end of the remaining envelope, and removed the document inside. He unfolded it, and looked it over as he reached for his mug of coffee. “Linda?” His hand stopped shy of the cup handle.

          “Is that Mark’s Birth Certificate?”

          He shook his head. “It’s not his.” He handed the document to his wife. “They sent us one for some gal named Marta Lawton. You’d think they would have checked the parents’ names and seen that they didn’t match.”

          “Gerald?” She handed the certificate back to him. “They do match. We’re listed as Marta Lawton’s parents.”

          “What? How?” He read over the form. “This lists Anthony Marcel as the delivering physician, too, but this one is dated six years after Mark was born. I know we used to have a copy of Mark’s birth certificate, and everything was correct. Where did this one come from?”

          “I don’t know.” She turned her head in the direction of the living room. “I would certainly remember if I’d ever had any other children besides Mark.”

          He slapped the certificate onto the dining table. “I’ll have to call them today, and get them to send the right certificate. They’d better not charge me for the correct copy.”

***

          A week. That was all it had taken for what should have been dismissed as a stupid clerical error to turn into a family crisis. I got a thirty-four year old son acting like his life is over, and now I have to deal with Linda wondering if I’ve cheated on her, because some suspicious friend of hers suggested maybe I’d fathered a child with another woman, and tried to hide it by using her name. I don’t need this stress. Retirement was supposed to be relaxing.

          Gerald read over the listing of Private Investigators on the computer, and selected one that specialized in searching for people. This is going to be expensive, I know it, but it’s gotta be cheaper than a divorce, which is where we’re headed if we don’t figure out who used our names and why.

Chapter 1

Mothers are fonder than fathers of their children because they are more certain they are their own.

~ Aristotle

Linda and Gerald sat on the couch, facing the Private Investigator over the coffee table. A gap large enough for another person remained between them, which would not have been as likely before the suspicions and doubts caused by the wrong certificate.

The investigator looked over the notes in his hand. “The County Recorder’s Office had no explanation for how you received the wrong birth certificate in the first place.” He flipped to another sheet. “Errors of this nature are not supposed to happen. They verified that it is genuine, though they expressed confusion. About eight years ago, they changed formats, and while Mark’s certificate is the old style, Marta Lawton’s is the new. Considering it lists her birth date as almost twenty years before the new form was even considered, let alone adopted, it suggests this certificate was issued well after her birth.” He dropped the papers on the coffee table. “I explored several options on this, not the least of which is that both of your identities were ‘appropriated’ by someone for whatever reason. The easiest way to have verified that would have been to talk to Dr. Marcel and determine if he recalled the parents of Marta Lawton and what they looked like. Unfortunately, Dr. Marcel was killed in a lab accident almost ten years ago. However, his former associates all attested to his remarkable memory for names and faces. If he had strangers claiming to be you, they say he would have known immediately, especially considering how much time you say you spent with him. I would say this also tends to rule out that another woman was posing as you, Mrs. Lawton, since Dr. Marcel would have spotted that as well. He might have accepted that Gerald had divorced and remarried, but he would have questioned the coincidence of both wives having the exact same first and middle names. It’s not impossible, but the likelihood is very slim. I found it odd as well that, according to one person I spoke with, Dr. Marcel was no longer practicing obstetrics when Marta Lawton was supposedly born; he was working strictly research at the time.”

He sat back and folded his hands together. “I thought maybe Marta Lawton had been a non-entity, created for the purpose of defrauding the government or something. It wouldn’t be unheard of for someone to falsify birth records to try and gain some kind of funding for either their personal or departmental usage. However, no records existed of any such claims made on her behalf. In fact, I could find no childhood records of Marta Lawton at all. I considered that Marta Lawton was a new identity created for someone for purposes of hiding, explaining the lack of any records of her youth. That’s still a possibility, but in cases like that they usually take the name of someone who died in infancy, instead of creating a whole new personage. After all, if you’d had a daughter named Marta who’d died as a baby you wouldn’t be suspicious to find her birth certificate, would you? Now, finding her marriage license after you’d thought her dead? That would raise eyebrows. You’ll find a copy of that particular document in the stack I just gave you.”

He gave them a moment to look it over. “The pastor who married them would not tell me anything about her either, claiming confidentiality issues. Whoever she is, she apparently exists and is now married to Joshua Cardan, a rather wealthy if somewhat reclusive man. He gets out in public, but he doesn’t play the typical social scene much. I can find plenty of information about him, including a rather juicy story of his first wife trying to kill him for his money, and loads of pictures and records of his life. Marta Lawton Cardan, however, is a phantom. Their marriage license was issued without her present; no newspaper carried any mention of the wedding, even though Cardan would certainly merit scrutiny from at least the local gossip columnists. Marta Lawton Cardan does not have a driver’s license, though she does have a Social Security number. Even talking with some of Cardan’s associates, none of them have ever seen Mrs. Cardan, though they report that Mr. Cardan speaks lovingly of her and seems happier than he’s ever been.”

“What do we do now?” Gerald leaned back and crossed his arms.

“Every avenue I tried in contacting Marta Cardan was closed to me. I tried to find out where they live, but wasn’t able to get any clear answer. Joshua Cardan owns a number of properties, but he sold his house soon after the murder attempt. I tried contacting him, but he refused to take any of my calls. Very shortly thereafter, I was contacted by an FBI agent who advised me very strongly to drop my investigation. I might have narrowed down where he lives with a bit more time, but frankly I’m not going to call the FBI’s bluff on this. If the government’s involved, my hands are tied and I can’t even really give you advice; however, the number for Joshua Cardan’s office is in my report in your hands. Maybe if you get this wild idea to call and tell him you’re his wife’s parents, he might talk to you.”

“But we can’t be his wife’s parents.” Linda looked from the investigator, to Gerald, and then back. Say something, Gerald. Give me something reassuring.

The investigator gave them a smile. “My curtailed investigation was inconclusive, so maybe he doesn’t know whether you really are or aren’t. If he knows you’re just two people whose names got tagged onto his wife’s birth certificate, he may talk to you in order to figure out how to get you to drop this inquiry. Or, he might just talk to you because he thinks you are his in-laws. The worst that happens is you don’t get anywhere, in which case you’re in the same boat you’re in right now. But, of course, I can’t tell you to try anything like that.”

Friday Fiction for September 13, 2013

Welcome to Friday Fiction, which I have the privilege of hosting this week! Look for the Linky widget below, and enter your submission for this week’s fiction reading.

It’s not often I write a story set in a non-sci-fi setting, but sometimes an idea pops into my head and just won’t go away. This scenario occurred to me this week, and kept circulating in my brain until I wrote it down. No mermaids or talking dogs or clockwork men or space aliens or other such this week – just a fool for your entertainment. I hope you enjoy.

A Fool’s End

By Rick Higginson

            He walked through the city streets, mostly ignored by the town’s people. The occasional child would notice him, and when they called to him he would perform a silly dance as he continued down the dirty road, but mostly he just walked.

            For a moment, the palace appeared ahead, just visible in the gap between two buildings, and he offered a silent prayer that the position had not already been filled. Performing in taverns and village squares, in the hope that the audience would be pleased enough to provide him with a meal, was not the most reliable livelihood.

            A soldier watched him approach as he climbed the steps to the palace, and the man’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “State your business.”

            He bowed with a flourish. “My lord, I am Benito the Jester, and I have heard your most noble king is seeking a fool for his court. I have come to offer my services.”

            “Empty your bag.”

            “Yes, my lord.” He placed the threadbare bag on the stone and removed his props one by one, arranging them for the guard to see.

            The soldier grunted, and nudged several of the items with his foot. “Wait just inside.” He opened the door and stood to one side. “A servant will show you where to go.”

            Benito gathered his props and bowed again. “Thank you, my lord.” He passed through the door, and stopped just far enough inside that he would not be hit by the heavy wood and metal when it closed.

            After a few minutes, an old man approached and looked him over. “A fool are ye? Aye, ye must be, to have come to this place. Come this way, then.” He turned and headed back through the entry hall.

            Benito hurried to follow him. “So, the position is still unfilled?”

            The old man maintained a steady muttering to himself, and did not answer. Every few moments, he would cackle with amusement at something or other, but never shared whatever he had found funny. He finally stopped and opened a small door. “Ye wait in here, and be ye ready when his highness calls ye. His majesty don’t take kindly to bein’ kept waitin, ye know.”

            “Most certainly.” He gave the man a bow before entering the room. “Thank you, my good man.”

            The old man laughed as he closed the door. “Fools, the lot o’ them.”

            A single window high in the wall provided the only light in the room, which was just as well. The room had nothing to look at, and the only furnishing was a worn wooden bench in the far corner. Save for the lack of any lock on the door, it could have been a dungeon cell. I pray they have a better reception for visiting royalty.

            He sat on the bench and considered napping, save for the old man’s admonition. Instead, he mentally rehearsed his best material and routines, thinking over which ones to use depending on what his impressions might be of the king.

            The solitary beam of sunlight from the window marked the passage of several hours, as it moved from low on the opposite wall to well above his reach, and Benito began to wonder if he was to spend the night in the barren room. Finally, the door opened, and a man dressed in finer clothing stood outside. “The king summons you, fool. Come with me.” The man never looked directly at him.

            Benito flipped his prop bag over his shoulder, and followed with lively steps. He brought the smile to both his lips and his eyes, preparing both his mind and his body for the performance.

            The royal attendant stopped before a pair of ornate doors. “You are the third fool his majesty has seen this week. For your own sake, do not disappoint him.”

            “Thank you, my lord.”

            “Hold your thanks until after you have seen the king.” The man pulled the door, and gestured for Benito to enter.

            The king slumped in his throne at the far end of the room. A large expanse of open floor in front of the throne was lined on either side by guards, and covered in the middle by what had once been an exquisite carpet. Lighting in the room was provided by rows of torches along the walls, and the air was heavy with the accumulated smoke.

            Benito bowed low. “Your majesty.”

            The king waved impatiently. “Come forward, fool, and tell us your name.”

            He walked up the center, and stopped a respectful distance from the throne before bowing again. “I am Benito the Jester, your majesty.”

            The king leaned forward. “Well, Benito the Jester, we have seen two other fools in the past three days, and we will now tell you the same thing we told them. The one of you that pleases us most shall have the position in my court. Of the other two, one will be free to go, but the one who pleased us least will die.” He sat back in the throne. “Do not displease us.”

            He felt a twist in his gut, and his mouth went dry. “Forgive my impertinence, your majesty, but did you say that the penalty for not being as good as the other two, is death?”

            “Are you deaf, fool? Yes, that is what we said.”

            He kept his head lowered, and took a deep breath. “I am sorry, your majesty, but I cannot perform.”

            “To refuse us is to forfeit your life, fool. Do you not wish to live?”

            “Most dearly, your majesty, but for me to live is to bring laughter and merriment to the lives of people. I cannot imagine how I could ever do so again, if I knew that my performance condemned another to death.”

            “You would choose death, to spare the lives of two fools you have never met?”

            “Yes, my lord, because another chose death to spare the life of this fool. If I am to die today, then it will be so that I may go and perform in His court.”

            “Then so be it. Captain of the guard – our sword!”

            He remained bowed, even as the king’s feet came into his view. A polished blade dangled with the point just in front of the king’s ankles.

            “Is this still your choice, fool?”

            “Yes, your majesty.”

            The sword lifted from his view, and the king shifted his weight from his heels as he hefted the heavy weapon. Benito closed his eyes, and began a silent prayer as he waited for the stroke of the blade. Lord God Almighty, make it quick and merciful.

            A weight dropped to his shoulder, and then a hand to his other arm. “Arise, fool, and look at us.”

            Benito opened his eyes. The sword rested flat on his shoulder, and the king was on one knee. “Your majesty?”

            “We have many soldiers and knights who will go into battle at our command. They will fight and they will die at our word, and consider it honorable to do so. Many are noblemen, born and raised to the chivalrous arts, and yet, never have we seen such a man as we have seen today. Answer us truthfully, Benito the Jester – will you tell us when we are being fools?”

            “I do not understand, your majesty.”

            “We wish for you to serve in our court; to bring laughter and merriment to us, and to be bold enough to tell us when we are being foolish in our rulings.”

            “What of the other jesters?”

            “They are free to go, and to live with the knowledge that they would have traded another’s life for their own. They have proven that they are truly fools, and we will not have a fool in our court.”

            “But, I am a fool, your majesty.”

            “Nay, Benito. Your time as a fool is ended. By Royal Appointment, you are Benito, Noble Jester.”

Friday Fiction for August 30 2013

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Sara over at Fiction Fusion. Don’t miss Sara’s creative story, or the other submissions!

Last week’s story was a short Steampunk Character sketch, and my plan is to incorporate the characters into a new chapter or two in “Clockwork Deacon.” Different writers have their own ideas of what elements to include in the Steampunk genre. Some include supernatural elements such as zombies and vampires, or alternate dimensions, or time travel, and some even include a little magic. That’s the beauty of fiction – we write the rules for our world. Myself, I prefer to stick to the idea of the kinds of things that could have been theoretically possible, given the scientific laws we know at this time, applied to the scenario of Victorian Era Mad Science. In essence, sticking to this world, but with a hypothetical divergence in history.

As such, Steampunk can easily retain the potential in Christian Fiction. It was fun to play with the idea of a character whose ability to communicate is severely limited, and with whom so much is left as an enigma. How the other characters in Loma Roja deal with Deacon, and their perceptions of him, gave me a great deal of story material. I especially liked how this played out in this chapter.

 

Chapter 11

The Typewriter

From “Clockwork Deacon”

 

It might have seemed strange, that Loma Roja had an Automaton in the town before a typewriter, but that was how it happened. Oddly enough, the Reverend was responsible for both. A conference in Phoenix called him away from the small town, and when he returned, he brought back the Underwood with him.

The device was something of a curiosity, and folks made a special trip to the pastor's study to view the marvelous writing machine. He extolled its advantages, particularly those of readable archives of sermon notes and church records, though there was some speculation that the man had simply discovered a new toy.

He retreated to the study in the evening, and locked the door. Deacon waited in the corner, while he began to type out notes. The typewriter was positioned on the desk to that Deacon could easily see what the Reverend was doing. He said nothing to the Automaton, and gave no indication that he required anything from the copper servant.

He would glance from time to time at the metal face, and then return to the typing. Each night, he took the paper from the machine, and locked it in a drawer of his desk. A fresh sheet of paper remained in the typewriter, and the Reverend would retire to bed, leaving Deacon in the study.

Mrs. Randolph placed his breakfast in front of him. AJust what are you up to all these nights in there, all by yourself?@ she asked.

AI'm not all by myself,@ Reverend Randolph replied. ADeacon is with me.@

AAll right, so you're not by yourself. What are you two doing in there?@

AI am working on a project, that I would rather not divulge at the moment,@ he said.

AWell, I would ask Deacon, but he wouldn't be able to answer me anyway. It just concerns me that you're staying up so late every night.@

He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. AIt's nothing to worry about, my dear. I assure you, I won't over-tax myself on this.@

After breakfast, he went to his study, and looked at the paper in the typewriter. The paper was blank, and Deacon had gone about his chores for the day. He heaved a sigh, and started on his sermon notes for the next meeting of the church.

That night, he locked the door of the study, and pulled a chair in front of Deacon. In one hand, he held a sign with large letters. ADeacon, do you know what this says?@ he asked.

Deacon looked at the sign, and gave a single nod.

ACan you read the sign, or do you know what it says based on what has been taught to you previously?@

There was no response.

AHow clumsy of me. I asked the question in a manner that you cannot answer with a simple yes or no. Deacon, can you read?@

The head clicked side to side.

ACan you learn?@

He processed the question, and then gave his nod.

ADeacon, if you learned to read, then you would be able to write as well. You would be able to communicate with us in more than just gestures, or just by nodding or shaking your head. Do you understand?@

He nodded.

AI do not expect you to master penmanship, but I believe you can easily learn to use the typewriter. Have you been watching me use it these past couple of weeks?@

He nodded.

ADo you understand its function?@

The single side to side shake.

AThe typewriter is a machine that imprints letters onto a sheet of paper, that anyone who knows how to read can then understand. These letters, when grouped together in a specific order, represent the words we speak. You could put words onto paper, that I could know what you are thinking. Do you understand?@

Deacon nodded again.

Reverend Randolph went to his shelf, and removed a children's reading primer. He turned to the first page, and began with the letter 'A'. It was difficult to judge how well Deacon understood the lessons, since he could not repeat back the information being imparted to him. At the end of the evening, though, the pastor put a fresh sheet of blank paper into the typewriter, and had Deacon stand over it.

ADo you see the letter 'A' on the typewriter, Deacon? If so, press the key.@

The mechanical hand reached forward, and typed a single letter.

His excitement turned to disappointment. AThat is the letter 'H'. Look at the 'A' in this book again, Deacon, and see if you can find it on the typewriter.@

It took four more tries before Deacon struck the correct key. Subsequent letters of the alphabet took similar numbers of attempts, and by the time it late enough to call it a night, he'd barely made it through half the alphabet. ATomorrow evening, Deacon. We'll resume tomorrow evening.@

The next evening, he started back at the letter 'A', and was pleased to find that, at least he didn't have to start all over again. Deacon correctly identified each letter he had successfully learned the night before. Before they finished that night, Deacon knew the entire alphabet.

Over the next week, though, teaching him how to use the alphabet proved to be an even greater challenge. Still using the children's primer, Rev. Randolph prompted Deacon to form simple words. He would type the letters as the pastor dictated them, but when told to type the word 'cat,' the Automaton sat there and waited.

ADeacon, do you understand what a cat is?@ He felt like he was giving a scolding to a recalcitrant child. AI have explained what letters form the word cat, and you know where these letters are located on the typewriter. It should be a simple matter, then for you to write the word.@

Deacon rested in front of the typewriter, as still as if he were waiting in the back of the church for services to finish.

Reverend Randolph settled into his chair, next to the Automaton. His voice became soft and pensive. AYou've been part of this family almost as long as my sons have, and a part of this community for all the years since we moved here. We can speak to you, and you respond to us with your actions, but do you know how much we long to have you respond to us in the means that we understand best?@

That was the frustration; he spoke candidly, and yet Deacon gave no indication of the statement having any impact upon him. He neither inclined his head to look at the Reverend, nor gave any gesture whatsoever to offer any clue to what his response might be.

AYou learn so many things that we never expected you to learn, nor that we even thought to teach you. You simply learned by watching us, or maybe by reasoning out the process in your own mind. Surely, you can learn this, can you not? Surely, the thought processes built into your mind must mimic our own in some way, or least be able to be translated into words we can understand. All the things you've done for this family and this town, there must be wisdom and intellect within you. Surely, you can either confirm or deny that with a simple yes or no answer?@

Deacon still did not respond, and the minister lowered his head into his hands. Lord, is this how we are to Thee? Dost Thou ask us questions, and we go about our daily lives as if we did not even hear Thee? Does my my spirit remain quiet and unresponsive, when Thou tryest to teach me how better to pray? Lord, am I to Thee even half as good a servant as Deacon is to me? I would that I could confidently say 'yes,' but Lord, I know if I tell Deacon to go and work here, he will go. How many times hast Thou commanded me to go and serve, and I have instead gone about my own business instead of Thine? Father in Heaven, what could he teach me, if Deacon could but speak?

There was a touch on his shoulder, and he raised his face to look at the Automaton standing over him. The static eyes were turned his way, and one hand rested on him in a close approximation of a supportive gesture, before the face turned towards the door and Deacon rolled away.

Rev. Randolph stood and followed, retrieving the key from the door after Deacon had unlocked it and passed through. The Automaton led him outside, and to the dark area behind the church, away from any light escaping from nearby windows. The copper face turned skyward, and stared out at the myriads of stars shining overhead.

The Pastor looked up also, wondering if there were something out there special to see, or if Deacon's focus was on a particular asterism, but he could not discern anything beyond the general area the gaze was aimed at.

ADo you wonder about the stars, Deacon? With words, you can ask questions, and maybe receive answers.@

He just stood, staring, and not moving.

Rev. Randolph sighed, trying to fathom whatever might be holding Deacon's attention. He quoted the first Scripture to come to mind. AWhen I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained; what is man, that Thou art mindful of him? And the son of man, that Thou visitest him? For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands; Thou hast put all things under his feet: All sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field; the fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.@

The clockwork sound of motion drew his eyes away from the sky. Deacon nodded at him, and then rolled to his shed. The door of the shed closed, and he was left alone in the dark.

I don't understand. Did he bring me out here just to get me to quote that Psalm? Or did that Psalm satisfy whatever question he had in his head? Was it for him, or for me? If man is a little lower than the angels, what does that make Deacon? If we question why God would be mindful of men, what must that imply to Deacon? He is a most complicated device of man's ingenuity, and yet, compared to all that God has made, he is as insignificant as those toys that he made for Christmas some years ago.

I am as insignificant as one of those toys, and I am in infinitely more complicated creation of God's ingenuity. I can't even puzzle out the workings of a less complicated toy. He turned his eyes back towards the house and the study. I'm not even sure how the typewriter works, yet, I can't help but feel that Deacon studied it that first night, and deciphered every mechanical detail of the machine. So, why can't he make use of it the way it is intended to be used?

He returned his gaze to the stars for a while, before retiring to bed.